


Trace the Lines

by darrinya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pansy is agender, Self-Loathing, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27652226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darrinya/pseuds/darrinya
Summary: Harry is lost at sea, drowning underneath an icy torrent. He sits next to Hermione and Ron, their hands tightly linked with his. Ron and Hermione's voices overlap, but Harry does not hear a word.Words have no place under the waves.After Draco commits suicide, Harry struggles to move on.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 111





	Trace the Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to flammable_grimm_pitch for editing!

The thing that people don't understand is that it's not always a bad day. Some days are so much better than anything Draco could deserve, and he never quite knows how to explain it to Harry.

_"Are you complaining about being happy?"_

_"I'm not complaining. I'm just confused."_

The night starts out fairly well. Harry and Draco go to a movie, and Draco can feel his shoulders slowly relax. It's odd, the way Draco feels more comfortable around Muggles than wizards now.

Draco understands _why--_ none of these Muggles know who he is. None of them know what he has done.

Draco and Harry walk home instead of apparating. Harry keeps flicking popcorn at Draco.

"You're making me feel all greasy," Draco complains, brushing kernels off of himself.

"We can take a bath later."

Draco feels a flush that spreads from his cheeks to the rest of his face, ears, and neck. He wants to duck his head in a bucket of ice water. He wants to duck _Harry Potter_ in a bucket of ice water.

Draco is just opening his mouth to retort with some of the nastiest adjectives he knows when a tall, well-dressed wizard grabs him by his lapels and slams him against the wall.

The wizard is screaming something, and Harry is prying the wizard off of Draco, but Draco can't hear a word they're saying. Draco's hair is caught on the rough brick, and the cold wall is biting through his clothes into his skin.

He's so cold.

"--IS WRONG WITH YOU?" Harry shouts.

The wizard is still screaming about Death Eaters and murder and blood, and Draco can't stop his hands from shaking.

Draco sways, his hand sliding down the sharp prickles of the wall.

"I need--I need to go home," Draco says dizzily.

He apparates away before Harry can say anything.

.

Nothing Draco does can be enough. _Nothing will ever be enough._

Draco knows he deserves this, but he can't bring himself to care. He's so cold, all the time, and nothing he does will ever make him warm. He doesn't want to be here anymore. He is so _tired_ of feeling like this, of not being enough, of failing time and time again.

Draco stares at his reflection, at the harshly drawn lines of his pale face. His eyes are far too big for his face, and Draco hates the projection of innocence they give him.

(He is not innocent; he is not a victim. Draco is stained, stained, _stained,_ and it's by his own hands. He deserves no pity. He deserves no love.)

With a muffled scream, Draco hurls his mug at the mirror. 

He watches his reflection shatter before his eyes.

.

_Trace the lines in your skin_

_Watch the lines become a pool_

.

Draco is marred. 

It's not just the scars that wind their way around his body. It's not just the mark burned into his skin.

It's everything about him. He tries _so hard_ to be a better person, but everything he touches turns to dust.

Harry doesn't understand. He likes to say that Draco is getting better, that Draco shouldn't punish himself for the person he used to be. But people don't really change--Draco is the same person he was five, ten, or fifteen years ago.

_Mud slapping his cheek, discreet stinging hexes in the middle of the street, death threats delivered to his door--_

Harry is fond of saying that these people are fools, but Draco can't help thinking that Harry is the fool for choosing to stay with him. While their methods may be cruel and at times illegal, they're right about one thing: Harry Potter deserves better.

Draco Malfoy deserves nothing.

.

There's something inherently broken about Draco.

He hates the way he can't control his own emotions and thoughts. He hates the blankness inside of him--he's just _so tired_ of feeling empty, of having no choice. He is like a brittle autumn leaf, bound to crumple and blow away at the softest sigh of a breeze.

Harry straddles Draco on the couch. Harry is kissing him, and Draco is technically kissing back, but he can't bring himself to _feel_ anything about it. Harry is the wind, and all Draco can do is follow his lead.

Harry pulls back, a puzzled look on his face.

"You okay?" he asks. "You seem kinda--"

Draco grabs the sides of Harry's face and pulls him close. Draco kisses him more fiercely than before, and Harry presses against him.

(Eager, warm, _alive.)_

One more night. Draco is selfish enough to want to stay with Harry despite not being able to feel, despite not being able to give Harry what he deserves, but one more night is all that Draco will allow himself. 

One more night, and Harry will finally be able to move on with his life without Draco floating behind him (always, permanently behind).

.

_Trace the lines in your skin_

_Feel it all slip away_

.

A potion would be better. A potion would hurt less.

But Draco deserves the bite of pain; he deserves to know the agony Hermione felt as his aunt carved letters into her skin.

So Draco picks up a shard of glass from his shattered mirror. 

It's going to be fine; it's going to be fine; _Harry will be fine--_

Draco is one person, and the echo of his death will have little impact on the world. Harry will grieve for a while, but he will move on. _Everyone_ moves on. Everyone gets better--it's just Draco left to kneel in the dust.

He hopes Harry will not hate him. Draco knows that Harry will understand, though. Harry has always seen the parts of Draco that he prefers to keep hidden.

.

Harry stands alone.

The office is full of people, but he is the only one there. They have no presence; they have no voice.

"You're lying," Harry says, his voice too loud.

"Mr. Potter," the Auror starts to say.

"He didn't," Harry says. "He wouldn't have--I would have known if he were starting to slip; I would have--"

"Mr. Potter, I understand that--"

"HE WAS GETTING BETTER!" Harry yells. "JUST STOP TALKING; STOP _LYING!"_

The Auror is reaching out to touch Harry's shoulder, but Harry jerks away, his heart pounding. He apparates to Draco's house and races up the stairs to Draco's room.

Aurors. Pansy crying in the corner. A mirror shattered on the floor. 

Draco (so, so, so much blood).

Pansy is trying to talk, saying something about how they were supposed to meet Draco for lunch, how they got worried and came to the house, but it's all a jumbled roar in Harry's head. He kneels next to Draco, grasping Draco's arm, his neck, his face.

Draco is so cold.

.

Harry is lost at sea, drowning underneath an icy torrent. He sits next to Hermione and Ron, their hands tightly linked with his. Ron and Hermione's voices overlap, but Harry does not hear a word.

Words have no place under the waves.

.

"He was getting better," Harry says.

Molly hugs him tightly, and Harry stiffens. He doesn't want hugs. He wants answers.

"Sometimes we don't _see_ it," Molly says. "It's all under the surface."

Harry feels panic rise up in his chest because that's worse, because he should have _noticed,_ because--

"I was going to propose," Harry says through stiff lips.

Molly pauses, pulling away to look at Harry. Her eyes brim with tears, and Harry feels an unexpected flare of irritation. How _dare_ she think she has the right to tears? She barely knew Draco. She didn't even _like_ Draco.

"I'll put the kettle on for you, dearie," Molly says.

Contrary to what many British people believe, tea does not fix everything.

.

"You've been distracted lately," Robards says.

"So you're sacking me."

A pained expression flashes across Robards's face. "No one is blaming you, Potter--"

"You're sacking me," Harry repeats.

"Harry, do you even want to be here?"

Harry stares down at his hands. Try as he might, the quivering will not cease.

Robards squeezes Harry's shoulder. "Let me know when you're ready to return to work," he whispers.

.

"You've been stuck inside for a week," Ginny says, linking arms with Harry.

"This, Harry," Luna says solemnly, linking arms with him on the other side, "simply will not do."

"I haven't felt like going out," Harry says.

"Understandable," Luna says.

"Which is why _we_ have come to _you!"_ Ginny says, striking a dramatic pose. "Ready the popcorn, babes--it's movie night."

.

It's not that it's a bad night.

It's that it's _too good_ of one.

Harry catches himself laughing during the film, which feels like such a betrayal. It has only been a few weeks. He shouldn't be this happy; he shouldn't be _laughing--_

Luna rests her head on Ginny's shoulder, her pale hair streaming down Ginny's chest. Harry's breath stutters for a brief second because _Merlin,_ her hair looks so much like Draco's it _hurts._

Harry digs his nails into his palms. He can't cry. He has to stay calm because if he cries, Ginny and Luna will be concerned, and then _they'll_ start crying, too, which will only make Harry feel _worse,_ and--

Ginny squeezes Harry's hand briefly, and Harry flinches away.

.

"This was fun," Luna says brightly. "The wrackspurts are much less prevalent around you now."

Harry hugs her briefly, then looks at Ginny and swallows before hugging her tightly.

"I miss you, Harry," Ginny says, her voice thick with tears.

"Right back atcha," Harry whispers.

Ginny pulls back and tries to smile, but her eyes are too watery for it to look real.

"Let's do this again sometime," Ginny says.

Luna pecks Harry's cheek.

"Don't be a stranger," she breathes.

She and Ginny walk away, hand in hand.

.

There are days when Harry doesn't think about Draco. There are days when it's all Harry can focus on, like Draco's memory is a crushing weight obstructing the sun.

Life moves on. (Life _has_ to move on.)

But Harry is stuck, in one moment, in one frame, kneeling at Draco's side and placing his ear to Draco's chest, waiting for the heartbeat and the breath that never come.

He should have noticed that Draco was struggling. Harry failed Draco, the same way he failed Sirius and Cedric and Dobby and so, so many others.

There were signs. There had to have been signs. Draco couldn't have just decided to do it one day, spur of the moment--that's not how Draco was. He planned and prepared and theorized. He thought of contingencies; he plotted out each choice.

So Harry just didn't notice something was wrong (too stupid, too blind, too slow).

.

Hermione wants Harry to visit Draco's grave. She claims that this will help him find closure, that Harry needs to have something ground him.

All Harry sees is mud and grass with a slab of stone carved to bear Draco's name.

"I don't understand why I'm here," Harry says.

"Sometimes it helps," Hermione starts to say.

Harry runs his fingers across the cold marble.

"Do you think he would have said yes?" Harry asks.

"To what?"

Harry pulls the ring from his pocket. It took him forever to find the right one. Draco was always so particular about what he wore, and Harry wanted to be sure that this was something Draco would want to wear for the rest of his life.

Hermione inhales sharply.

"I can't stop looking at it," Harry says.

Hermione says tearfully, _"Harry--"_

Harry is so _sick_ of people crying around him. It's not their boyfriend. It's not their pain.

Harry closes his fingers around the ring and slips it back in his pocket.

"Let's go home," he says flatly.

Hermione throws her arms around Harry, and he stares blankly over her shoulder.

He knows Hermione (everyone) is trying to help. But it's like they know a different language than what Harry normally speaks, and Harry doesn't know how to respond.

.

Pansy asked to meet Harry for tea. Harry thought about lying and saying that he was too busy, but Pansy would have seen straight through it.

So now Harry sits in Pansy's kitchen, sipping on tea and holding up his facade of being a functioning human with every bit of strength he has left.

"Are you growing out your hair?" Pansy asks.

Harry runs his fingers through his hair absentmindedly.

"I just haven't felt like getting a haircut," Harry says.

Pansy nods slowly, but they do not look convinced.

Harry slips his hand in his pocket, then freezes.

The ring isn't there.

Harry checks his other pocket, the insides of his sleeves.

_He lost Draco's ring._

"Harry?" Pansy asks, confusion in their voice.

He has to have the ring. He can't have lost it; he can't--

Harry apparates away, right as Pansy's hand latched onto his arm.

(He could have splinched Pansy. He could have killed them.)

Harry runs to Draco's grave, his eyes raking the ground under his feet. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe--

He sweeps his hand over the dirt, then begins to claw at the ground. It has to be somewhere.

"Harry! HARRY!"

Pansy shakes Harry's shoulders, but Harry keeps digging.

 _"What_ are you looking for?" Pansy demands.

Harry doesn't have enough air to speak. All he can think to do is keep looking, keep searching--

Pansy bends down, their knees in the dirt, and begins to sweep through the grass next to Draco's grave. It's clear that they have no clue what they're looking for, but they're trying to help, and Harry's throat is too tight to thank them.

Harry claws at the dirt until his hands are covered with dirt and scratches and tiny rocks.

The ring isn't there.

Harry isn't going to find it.

Harry starts to gasp for air, his soul shriveling up inside his bones. He's being an idiot. It's just a ring. It's nothing. (Except it is _not_ just a ring, and Harry just lost the one thing that was still holding Draco to earth, and now Draco is lost forever.)

Pansy holds him, but their arms are not strong enough to calm Harry's shaking shoulders.

"Harry," Pansy says, and he hates the calm in their tone, "tell me what we're trying to find."

"The--the _ring,"_ Harry chokes out. "I lost it, and he's _gone,_ and I was supposed to _give_ it to him, but--"

 _"Accio_ ring!" Pansy shouts, whipping out their wand.

A gleam of gold flies into Pansy's palm, and they drop it into Harry's hand. Harry collapses, his fingers closing around the ring so tightly that it bites into his skin. He buries his face in Pansy's shoulder.

He needs to stop crying. He's being an idiot. He has the ring again; he's fine; he's fine; he's _fine--_

Pansy just holds Harry, smoothing back Harry's hair.

.

"It's my fault," says Harry.

Ron drops his glass of water, his head jerking up. Harry's stomach twists as the glass shatters on the floor, blood spilling across--

Water. It's just water.

"Mate, what are you--"

Harry is picking up the shards of glass, his hands slippery with water (blood, blood, blood). Ron grabs Harry's wrists, and the glass slips through Harry's fingers.

"Breathe, Harry," Ron orders.

"It's my fault," says Harry. "I should have noticed something was wrong. I wasn't good enough; I should have _helped,_ but I just--"

"You can't blame yourself--"

"THEN WHO CAN I?" Harry yells, leaping to his feet. "Whose fault is it, Ron?! Because it sure as _hell_ isn't anyone else's!"

"He wouldn't want you to blame--"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT HE WANTS! HE'S DEAD!"

Ron's face is ashen. He steps closer to Harry, the glass crunching under his shoes.

"You can't--we can't think about it like this," Ron says. "We can't assign blame."

Harry shakes his head so hard that his hair slaps his cheeks. 

"No, there has to be someone to blame," Harry says frantically. "There has to be a _reason_ \--he wouldn't do this; he wouldn't _leave_ me without--"

Ron grasps Harry's shoulders, looking him in the eye.

"Listen to me, Harry--" Harry tries to pull away, but Ron's grip tightens. _"Listen_. This was _no one's_ fault. Not yours. Not Draco's. Sometimes--sometimes a person just feels trapped, and the only way they can think of to escape is--is--"

Ron's voice falters.

"Why didn't I see?" Harry whispers, hating the weak, broken thread of his voice. "I should have been able to help him."

"None of us saw," says Ron.

Harry sneers. "Thanks _so much,_ Ron. You should consider a career in counseling."

Ron's voice drops about twenty degrees as he says, "Maybe you should consider seeing one."

.

"He wrote poetry," Harry says.

Luna raises limpid eyes. Without saying a word, her eyes ask, _May I see?_

Harry hands her a few pieces of paper, and Luna reads silently.

"Oh," Luna says softly.

"He never showed me," Harry says, his voice tight.

"I can imagine why," Luna says.

"If I had read them--"

Harry stops, expecting Luna to cut him off and say the same things that everyone else has been telling him. Instead, she waits, her eyes fixed on Harry's face.

"Why didn't he leave a suicide note?" Harry blurts out.

Luna's eyebrows raise, and she looks at Harry with wide eyes. Several seconds pass.

"I don't know, Harry," she says finally. "But I think--I think these may have _been_ his note."

Poems of death and blood and loathing, of fear and failure, of the lines Draco was planning to trace in his skin.

"Keep them," Harry says.

"Harry--"

"I hate them," Harry snaps. "I want to burn them, but I--"

His eyes sting. Luna places her hand on Harry's cheek, then slowly folds the paper up into neat squares before tucking it into her pocket.

"I'll keep them safe," Luna promises.

.

"Ron says it's not my fault," says Harry.

Blaise leans back in his chair, watching Harry with his characteristically disinterested air. It's a relief, in a way, to be under Blaise's bored gaze. So many people treat Harry like a specimen to be dissected, but Blaise has a way of watching people without actually _looking_ at them.

"He's probably right," Blaise says, pouring himself a glass of wine. "Draco never _talked_ about things. Never asked for help, either."

He takes a sip of wine, acting as if the wine is the most important part of the conversation.

"But shouldn't I have _seen_ that he needed it?" Harry asks, frustration bleeding through his words.

Blaise throws his head back and laughs, this sharp, short bark from the back of his throat.

"Listen to me very carefully, Potter," Blaise says. "Draco Malfoy was like a house with the shutters closed. No one, and I mean _no one_ could see what was going on inside of that man."

"He promised me," Harry says, his voice poised on the edge of a cliff, "that he was getting better."

Blaise drains the rest of his wine and sets his glass on the table with a pointed _clink._

"The only good thing Lucius Malfoy taught his son was how to lie with a smile on his face," Blaise says.

.

A few weeks pass. Blaise's words keep echoing in Harry's mind and combining with everyone else's.

_"Sometimes we don't see it."_

_"Tell me what we're trying to find."_

_"Sometimes a person just feels trapped."_

Harry looks at the ring lying in his palm, the gleam of gold and emerald winking up at him. (Gryffindor and Slytherin tastefully combined, as the jeweler joked.) 

All of a sudden, Harry knows what he needs to do.

.

"I don't understand it," Harry says. He is kneeling at Draco's grave, running his finger across Draco's name again and again. "To be honest, I don't really understand you. But I know--"

The words get stuck on Harry's tongue, and he clears his throat.

"I know this wasn't your fault, but I was so _angry_ for the longest time, and I thought it was with _me,_ but I've realized--" Harry digs one hand into the dirt. Grass has already begun to grow, and the slender blades shiver against his palm. "I hated you," Harry whispers, his voice breaking. _"I hated you._ You left me; you _lied_ to me, and--"

He can barely breathe. Each breath is like a spasm, a spike of pain slicing down his throat.

Harry rubs his face, then presses the heels of his palms against his eyes.

"I'm sorry," says Harry, "for not noticing that you were drowning. And I'm sorry for blaming you for something that was out of your control."

Harry takes the ring out of his pocket, then sets it on top of Draco's grave. He rests his forehead against the cold marble gravestone and closes his eyes.

"I have nothing to forgive," Harry whispers. "I love you."

Harry climbs to his feet and stares at the ground where the ring winks up at him in the dim starlight.

"Goodbye," Harry says, his voice rough. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you are struggling with depression or suicidal ideation, know that you are not alone. There is hope. You are not weak for feeling this way, and you deserve so much more than what you give yourself.
> 
> If you know someone who is suicidal or who committed suicide, know that it is not your fault. Your grief is valid and even healthy--blaming yourself for it is not.
> 
> Leave a comment below or come chat with me on tumblr: darrinya.tumblr.com


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